


Crisis of Faith

by alaina_angel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Religious Conflict, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaina_angel/pseuds/alaina_angel
Summary: Oh, look, another story based on That Night at Crowley's Flat but I hope with an interesting twist! Aziraphale and Crowley have survived the not-Apocalypse and are hiding out in Crowley's flat but, when Aziraphale realises he cannot perform miracles, he has a religious crisis.Only religious in the sense of what we know from Good Omens - no deep discussions about theology.The luxurious bed with its marble headboard is based on this one: https://www.1stdibs.co.uk/furniture/more-furniture-collectibles/bedroom-furniture/beds-frames/contemporary-dettifoss-marble-edition-bed-frame-black-brass-marble/id-f_12178413/
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found it interesting that between the denouement at the airbase and the bus arriving, Aziraphale doesn't perform an obvious miracle on screen - or you could argue that at least. Crowley clearly summons the bus. I decided to explore what Aziraphale was thinking and how his divorce from Heaven - he left of his own accord after all upon refusing to fight - would affect him.  
> The whole story is written and chapter 2 on Sunday.  
> Please do let me know what you think.

Crisis of Faith  
Chapter 1  


Letting go of Aziraphale’s hand with a brief squeeze, Crowley stopped at the door to his flat, his stance watchful and intense. He examined the snake doorbell without touching it and then sent a shimmer across the key and handle, checking for supernatural booby traps. When he was certain no other being had entered since Ligur and Hastur, he opened the door, using his key rather than a miracle. He let the door swing open. 

“Careful, angel,” he warned curtly, pointing at the gloopy puddle on the floor in the doorway to the throne room which was all that was left of the obliterated Ligur. 

The angel nearly gagged not only at the revolting remains but also at the unholy stink. “Dear God,” he began before he could stop the blasphemy. “What happened?”

Crowley took off his glasses and narrowed his eyes. “Take one pissed off demon, add one tartan thermos of holy water and bring to a rapid boil. Garnish with red bucket.”

“Is that what they’ll do to you?”

Crowley gave a humourless snort. “Hellfire for you, holy water for me.”

“Obliteration.” Obliteration was the ultimate punishment feared by angels and demons alike, the one meted out for only the gravest of crimes. It was execution but on a final and cosmic scale. More complete than Falling, it meant total deletion: even their very atoms would no longer exist. 

“Amazing how imaginative demons can get when it comes to retribution. They’re not going to take our treachery philosophically. In fact, they will take it painfully and violently.” Crowley stared down at the disgusting mess which was still faintly steaming. 

The bile rose in Aziraphale’s throat at the thought of Crowley sharing the same fate as Ligur. “I’ll clean it up. Stand well back.” Aziraphale began to gather his will together in order to perform the necessary miracle. It should have been relatively easy but even as he prepared himself, he knew there was something fundamentally wrong: there seemed to be a barrier, something stopping him from accessing the Heavenly realm. 

Perhaps the difficulty lay in the simple fact that he was mentally, physically and emotionally drained – more tired than he had ever been in his entire existence. Aziraphale did not cope well with change; he liked routine, order, a set of clear rules to follow. All of that had gone out the window in the last few days until he had felt like he was at the centre of a whirling vortex of entropy, lurching from one crisis to another, barely able to think straight, never mind regroup mentally. The result was his mind and body were in sensory overload: he craved peace and quiet, a cup of tea and the calming effects of a book in his hand. 

Was that it, simple exhaustion? He focused his concentration, even going so far as to close his eyes and reach out his hand in a way that should not have been necessary for a Principality. Nothing. He could feel nothing: No familiar surge rippling through his ethereal essence, no sense of touching the divine. 

He couldn’t perform miracles anymore. 

It was like having his wings clipped. He was an angel, a Principality, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate no less and he could perform a miracle no more than he could conjure Harry the rabbit from his magician’s hat. It was then the full import of the situation came crashing down upon him. If he couldn’t perform miracles then it followed with cold, bleak logic that he had been cut off from God’s Grace. He found he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think past the howling, shrieking void inside his head and he had to lean against the wall for support.

“Angel? Just had the carpet shampooed and all.” Crowley frowned at him, apparently only belatedly picking up on his distress. “You alright? You’ve gone green.”

“Tickety-boo.” Somehow he collected the wherewithal to answer, passing a trembling hand across his brow. “Just, just not entirely sure it’s a good idea to miracle the remains away. Given our current status as - ”

“Fugitives? Pariahs? The fucked?”

“Yes, well, we should probably avoid superfluous miracles.”

Crowley made a face. “Probably right. Don’t want arch-wanker Gabriel and his fellow pricks tracking us down.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, always a sign of severe stress. “I wonder, might I trouble you for a drink? Brandy would be marvellous.”

“Where are my manners? Wait, demons don’t have any manners. This way, angel.” Turning ninety degrees, Crowley opened another door which led into an ultra-modern if stark living room complete with grey walls and a sleek black leather sofa standing to attention against the wall. 

While Aziraphale sank onto the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince, Crowley paced methodically through every room of his flat, scanning for demonic devices, strengthening his warding spells and clicking all the blinds closed. At the kitchen window, he scrutinized the street below, probing the darkness both literally and metaphorically for occult or ethereal auras. 

He drummed at the wall next to the window, his eyes intense. “Clear so far. Not so much as an imp out there.”

Over on the couch, Aziraphale gave a tight smile. “There are no precedents, clearly, but if I were to hazard a guess – ”

“Hazard away, angel, you’re the clever one.”

“This night is a, a kind of interregnum, a period of adjustment between the old world order and the new.” 

“I was going for computer re-boot myself,” Crowley said. “So we have until midday, say, to decipher Agnes and formulate a Bond-like plan before the proverbial hits the rotary impeller.”

Muttering darkly to himself, he paced another circuit of his flat like a caged animal before kicking out at the innocent coffee table in sullen rage. Everything felt hopeless like they were facing another Apocalypse, the difference being that this time they didn’t face the end of the world but the end of their own existence. He sloped off in search of brandy, returning with his best bottle of 1947 Hors d’Age Cognac and two snifters. 

“What shall we drink to? The end times? Fucking eternity?” He slugged down the entire glass and then abruptly threw the snifter against the wall where it shattered impressively. “FUCK!” When his companion made no comment, he rounded on him, only for his resentful anger to evaporate instantly when he saw that Aziraphale was slumped on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, uncharacteristically still and silent. He perched next to him. 

“Angel?” Seeing his angel sunk in this quiet anguish distressed him much more than the familiar dithering and waistcoat-worrying. Every instinct roared at him to hug him close and never let him go but six thousand years of repression and denial were hard to break. Afraid the tentative intimacy would shatter, he reached out his hand and rested it over the angel’s clasped hands, waiting for the angel to make the next move. After what seemed an Age but could only have been a few heartbeats, Aziraphale turned their hands, slipping his own into Crowley’s and linking them together as they had been on the bus ride home. Such an unassuming and simple gesture, something humans indulged in without a second thought, but it had Crowley’s heart hammering. 

“Hey, it’ll be okay.” 

“Will it?” 

“We averted an Apocalypse, right? We’ll figure out Agnes’s prophesy and screw the lot of them.” He soaked in their nearness: the almost-touch of their knees, the fragile skin on Aziraphale’s inner wrist and the pliant warmth of his hand. In all those long bleak centuries of unfulfilled loneliness, he had never been this close or this intimate with the being he loved and in a few short hours, they would be wrenched apart for eternity. 

Vividly he recalled the bookshop in flames, the searing agony like a flaming sword twisting his heart when he thought his best friend, his more than best friend, was obliterated. 

“I’ve lost everything, Crowley. I can’t lose you too.” 

“Never.” Sliding closer until he could feel the heat of the other’s thigh against his, he cupped the angel’s cheek, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb before claiming his mouth, chaste and tender, pouring all the centuries of pining and love into their very first kiss. 

It was too much for Aziraphale. For six thousand years, he’d obeyed Heaven against his better judgement time and time again: Sodom and Gomorrah, the Flood and Yeshua’s crucifixion to name but a few. A long line of sins - yes sins - he’d committed in the name of righteousness. He’d denied his love for Crowley too, partly out of a genuine fear of reprisal but also, he finally admitted, because he had held to the blind belief that Heaven could not be wrong. Well, no more. He’d turned his back on Heaven which meant he could do as he pleased – he could love this being with all his sinful, imperfect soul, if only for one night. 

He had only rebelled against Heaven twice in his life: six thousand years ago in the Garden of Eden when he gave Adam his flaming sword and a few hours ago when he had refused to lead a Heavenly Host into battle. This would be his third. A holy triumvirate. 

Ignoring the still small voice of calm which informed him he wanted to claim Crowley not out of unrequited love but out of desperation, the angel clashed their mouths together, his tongue demanding entrance which was immediately given. He pulled them both to their feet, barely pausing his rough kisses. When he yanked open the other’s shirt, however, his hands were seized and he looked up at Crowley, dizzy with that unnamed emotion that could have been passion but could just have easily have been hopelessness.

“Wait, angel!” He caught his lips for a sloppy if devoted series of kisses but evaded Aziraphale’s questing hands again. “Never thought I’d say this – and aware of the irony here - but you go too fast for me, Aziraphale.”

“I want you.”

“You don’t say!” More turned on than he had ever been, Crowley nonetheless took a few deep shuddering breaths. “You have me, believe me.”

“Then take me to bed.”

There was only so much temptation a demon could resist. Trying to make eye contact, he kissed him gently before taking his hand and leading him through the throne room. Despite himself, Aziraphale paused at the statue of an angel and demon which reposed at the end of the long hallway that bisected the flat. Ignoring Crowley’s impatient hiss, he stroked a finger down the marble planes of the demon.

“Must we always be fighting?” he asked, turning sad accusing eyes to Crowley. “Is this how it has to be?”

“Angel, they’re not …“ Crowley trailed off, sensing this really wasn’t the time for a lesson on the finer points of art interpretation. “Never mind. Come on.”  
***  
Crowley’s bedroom was in the same austere style as the rest of his flat but, unlike the chill living room, the chamber had an atmosphere of familiarity, of being in daily use despite the minimalist furnishings. Dominating the room - and indeed the only piece of furniture of any note - was a modern bedstead which had a slab of black marble as the headboard. The grain of the stone was beautiful and, although the overall effect was severe, it was not disconcerting. Unsurprisingly, the sheets were black silk shot through with crimson. A subtle aroma of vanilla, patchouli and rosewood pervaded the air while the lighting came from a line of halogen lamps hanging from the ceiling. 

In fact, Aziraphale gave the room only the barest of glances. The moment he was through the door, he propelled Crowley to the bed and began assaulting his mouth with deep searching kisses that had them both moaning and writhing. The usually diffident angel found that once he started he just couldn’t stop, all the loneliness and need of the past millennia welling up inside him. He wanted Crowley, he wanted to feel skin on skin, the heat and pressure of him; in fact, everything that Heaven had told him he couldn’t have. 

“Screw Heaven,” he panted and the phrase – the heated blasphemy of it – made him even more dizzy with need and lust. Only dimly was he aware of Crowley murmuring to him, rubbing his back to get him to calm down, trying to slow their wild kisses down to gentler loving caresses but he was having none of it. 

Without preamble, Aziraphale got them both naked and tugged them onto the bed with Crowley on top of him, his fingers digging into the demon’s back and ass to pull him even closer while he plundered his mouth aggressively. Despite this and the other’s growl of frustration, Crowley rested back on his elbows, wanting to cherish the moment – the reality of Aziraphale in his bed. He stroked his fingers through the halo of his hair before skimming his temples, his cheeks, his throat with featherlight touches meant to soothe and gentle.

“Slowly, angel, remember?” he murmured, catching his earlobe between his teeth and biting teasingly. 

Aziraphale shook his head, arching his lower body up against Crowley’s. “This may be our last time.”

“We’ll work it out, we always do.” 

“I can’t lose you never having known. Take me.” The angel grabbed Crowley’s face, driving his tongue between his lips and exploring his mouth forcefully; Crowley moaned at the idea of the timid sweet angel being so assertive in bed. He began rocking their hips together in a building rhythm while he tried to make eye contact, the feeling of not-quite-rightness increasing when the angel threw his arm across his face to avoid him. Crowley was achingly hard by now, having to grit his teeth to maintain the slow tempo but when he sent his hand between their bodies, it was evident that Aziraphale was still flaccid beneath him. 

This was all wrong. In the centuries he’d endured alone, he’d imagined their first time together on any number of occasions: sometimes the angel would be the instigator, sweeping Crowley off his feet (sometimes literally) passionate and strong; sometimes the angel was sweet and virginal, blushing and timid as Crowley awakened his body to sensation. Never had he imagined the moment to be like this: awkward and out of synch. 

“Crowley, just do it. Fuck me.”

“Aziraphale, angel.” He shook his head. “Your body’s not ready yet.” 

A twisted smile curled his lips and he had never looked less like Aziraphale. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What the Hell does that mean? I’m not going to just flip you over and fuck you.”

Humiliation colouring his cheeks, Aziraphale pushed his hands away and rolled out of bed. Before Crowley could process what had happened fully, he had seized his clothes and was running from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pray.” He pointed to the floor. “On your knees, angel – and you can’t imagine how many times I’ve wanted to say that.”

Crisis of Faith  
Chapter 2

It was some minutes before Crowley decided enough time had passed for the other to collect himself. He selected a pair of silken pyjamas for himself and then tracked him down to the living room. When he heard his approach, Aziraphale turned deliberately away. He had dressed himself again as if to deny their intimacy and was currently fastening up the last button on his shirt. Buttoned up again, all his shields in place. 

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” The demon winced when the joke which was supposed to lighten the mood only increased the tension.

Conversations such as these were not his strong suit by any stretch of the imagination and there was, Crowley had to admit, some karmic justice in the fact that the demon who had caused more than one romantic tryst to fail by rendering the male participant impotent was now experiencing the same humiliation himself. He gestured vaguely to the bedroom and tried to adopt a casual tone. “Happens sometimes, that. Satan, it’s embarrassing and especially our first time together but you’re tired. It’s okay…”

“Don’t, please.”

“Are you ah sure you know how to work things down there?” the demon continued, taking a step closer, drawn despite his own embarrassment by the defeated posture of his angel. “I know it took me a while to work out what to do with that particular, ah, anatomical arrangement.” 

He flinched when Aziraphale turned on him, his usually gentle eyes flashing with anger. “It’s not that!” He slumped on the sofa, covering his face with shame. 

“Then what?” Crowley perched on the coffee table, reaching out to touch the angel and then thinking better of it. 

“I, I can’t perform miracles.” 

“You’re just tired. Slog for me too at the moment.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Watch.” He looked up at the row of halogen lights above the sofa and clicked his fingers. “Let there be light!” he ordered, smiling grimly when nothing happened. 

Crowley sniffed the air. A miracle was the manipulation of matter on a sub-atomic level. As a snake, he could smell when a miracle had been performed because it left a heavy taste of ozone in the air. He shifted uncomfortably. “So Gabe cut you off – the wanker’s done it before.” 

“It’s not a question of … bureaucracy. I know that Gabriel has forbidden me from performing miracles in the past but this is different. Even when I was forbidden, I could still reach past the injunction and perform illicit miracles if I was willing to take the consequences. This time it’s not a question of not being allowed; it’s a question of not being able to.”

“But you’ve not Fallen. Trust me, lake of brimstone’s not something you forget.” 

“The inability to perform miracles can mean only one thing: I’ve been cut off from God’s Grace. God has rejected me.” 

“You’re overreacting. Why the Hell, or Heaven I should say, would She do that?”

“Because I renounced Heaven.”

“About bloody time!” At Aziraphale’s look of devastation, Crowley had the grace to wince. “Sorry. Insensitive demon here.” Hesitantly he took Aziraphale’s hand in his, more than relieved when the other didn’t pull away. “Tell me what happened, angel.”

“After getting myself inadvertently discorporated, I arrived in Heaven to discover the Hosts were mustering. I realised then – it only took me six millennia – how unutterably wrong and sinful Heaven was. Gabriel and his cronies were ready – eager, in fact - to massacre innocent humans just for the sake of a petty game of one-upmanship.” 

“No better than my lot.”

“I left. I wasn’t exiled or driven out by a flaming sword.” He smiled sadly at the sentiment. “I renounced Heaven and all its self-righteous, hypocritical principles of my own free will. You’ve been trying to tell me for centuries about Heaven but I wouldn’t let myself entertain the notion that you were right.”

“It was your whole belief system, angel. I might be a demon but I get it.” He shrugged. “Kind of admired you for it.” He tried to reach for him, perhaps to draw him closer but Aziraphale shied away, although he didn’t surrender his hand. 

“God must have decided to punish my rebellion not by causing me to Fall but by cutting me off from her Grace. I’ve been rendered impotent – and I’m not talking about what happened in the bedroom although the irony is a nice touch.”

Crowley had never seen the angel bitter before. In all the centuries that they had known each other, he had pretty much memorised every expression, tracked every mood: the decadent wiggle over a new-found dessert; the crinkle of his eyes when he saw Crowley before he schooled his expression; the waves of contentment when he settled down to read a new book; the stressed dithering where he’d worry at his waistcoat or toy with his pinkie ring and the out-of-control fear which had manifested itself so cruelly at the bandstand. Seeing the innocent angel twisted with bitterness was worse than facing Satan.

Just then, before he could truly acknowledge how much the angel’s changed character had shocked him, a piece of charred paper fluttered into his line of vision. He was about to snap it out of existence with an irritated click of his fingers when he realised what it was: Agnes’s last prophesy. He grabbed the paper and read the words again. “Weird,” he muttered to himself, trying to grasp the moment’s significance. “I put this in my coat pocket…” 

“So?”

“Things don’t just ‘happen’ – not to us. Come on, you know this stuff: every incident has purpose and meaning. God doesn’t play dice with the universe. It’s a sign.”

“Hallelujah.” Aziraphale’s tone was heavily sarcastic and he closed his eyes to block out both the prophesy and Crowley. 

Crowley’s demonic patience was starting to run out. “This is the second time Agnes has waved this prophesy under our very noses.” With the abject terror and then Aziraphale’s religious crisis, they had both lost sight of the prophesy and in so doing, had lost sight of their own salvation. “Come on.”

Aziraphale was about to refuse but one look at the demon’s determined expression and he caved in, not because he knew he was right but just because it was easier to capitulate. They went into Crowley’s office, the angel flopping dispiritedly onto the throne while Crowley smoothed the charred fragment of paper out in front of him.

“Read it.”

“’When all is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff, ye will be playing with fyre.’”

“I know what it says, what does it mean? You’re the clever one.”

“I don’t know what it means.”

“You have read a gazillion books, Aziraphale. Work it out.” 

“What’s the point?” 

That was it. Crowley banged his hand down on the desk with enough demonic force to shatter the marble had he not ordered it to remain whole. When Aziraphale looked up in shock, he nailed him with his glare, demonstrating a resolve born of brimstone. “Work. It. Out.”

The demon took a deep cleansing breath, letting the anger and frustration go with a slow hiss. In silent apology, he rested his hands on his lover’s shoulders, feeling the muscles tense from his touch. After a few minutes, however, Aziraphale leaned back against him and reached up to take his hand. 

“I’m, I’m sorry, Crowley. I know I’m being selfish.”

“Going through a lot – I get it. But let’s panic about one catastrophe at a time, yeah?” 

“I suppose mending my relationship with the Almighty will be a walk in the park compared to avoiding having our atoms spread to the solar winds.”

“And we should know – we walk in the park a lot.” 

It would be so easy to sink into the pit of despair that he could feel beckoning him; give in to the hopelessness and the sense of loss. But, deep down, he was a warrior. He’d fought for freedom and the Earth’s salvation on the airfield at Tadfield; surely he could fight now for his own salvation and the freedom to love whom he desired. Aziraphale cranked up a small smile and accepted the gentle kiss Crowley bestowed. “I’ll do my best, my dear. Perhaps a cup of tea.”  
***  
With a cup of tea in a delectable bone china tea cup at his elbow, Aziraphale turned his full attention to the prophecy, occasionally making notes in his precise handwriting while Crowley tried not to hover or pace, finally completing another security circuit of the flat before loitering with his plants who trembled gratifyingly even though they knew his heart wasn’t in it. After half an hour, his impatience got the better of him and he returned to the angel’s side.

“Night’s drawing on.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Really, Crowley, have some consideration, you silly demon.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and then sighed with pleasure when Crowley perched as only he could on the arm of the throne and began rubbing his temples. After a moment, the demon leaned over at what would have been a perilous angle for anyone who didn’t have serpentine balance and opened the red and gold embossed casket on the desk. With a slightly awkward air, he took out a glasses case which he thrust at Aziraphale. “These might help. Don’t want you getting a headache.”

Aziraphale turned over the old-fashioned, wire-rimmed spectacles in his hands. “These are mine.”

“Are not,” Crowley lied unconvincingly.

“Are too. They say, ’Property of A Z Fell.’”

“Must have left them here then.” 

“I’ve never been here before.”

“Must have stolen them then.”

“Really, dear.” Aziraphale was smiling at him, a fond indulgent smile that did funny things to his infernal soul. He put on a glare just in case the other thought this was cute. 

“Just concentrate on the prophecy, will you, angel. What have you got so far? You solve The Times crossword in under ten minutes all the time.”

After polishing his glasses with his hanky, Aziraphale put them on in that certain way of his that always turned Crowley’s insides to mush. “’When all is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff, ye will be playing with fyre.’ Well, the first thing that springs to mind is that this is Agnes’s final prophesy and the only one – as far as I recall – that refers to events following the Not-Apocalypse.”

“The Apocadidn’t? Armagedon’t?”

“Oh, that’s rather clever, dear.” He beamed and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “To continue: more significant is the fact that Agnes is specifically addressing herself to both of us.” He tapped the parchment with his finger, slipping into lecture mode so easily that Crowley, diabolical though he was, couldn’t help another doting smile. “The word ‘ye,’ do you see?”

“Don’t see.”

“’Ye’ is an archaic form of ‘you’ but it specifically denotes the second person plural.”

“We – you and me – we must choose our faces wisely. Nanny and Brother Francis, those are the only faces we’ve chosen in the last decade. Or Madame Tracey.”

Aziraphale sighed and let his eyes close. He was so weary now, he couldn’t think straight. “Unless the aggravating dear means theologically: we need to choose our faces – our sides – wisely. There is no doubt in my mind, however, that the prophesy is active and time-sensitive: it is relevant to here and now, this very minute.” 

Right on cue, the church clock across the street chose to chime, startling both of them and informing them it was five o’clock. Aziraphale removed his glasses and padded over to the window, needing a break from prophesy and theology. Dawn was another hour off but the sky was already rose-pink and gold. The first day of the new world. He remembered watching dawn on the very first day of Creation after God had hung the sun in the firmament of Heaven and how the angels had bowed down and worshipped Her. 

The last chime rang out. Defeat seemed to stare them in the face. Perhaps, Crowley thought with a touch of gallows’ humour, Death was waiting down on the street for them. He crossed to his lover, drawing him close, his fingers tracing every line and curve of his face as if memorising him. He kissed him without urgency. If they were to die, they would face their demise together. 

“If they take you, Aziraphale, I’ll walk right into Heaven to get you back, I swear on everything that’s unholy.”

Aziraphale let his head rest against his chest. “And I into Hell, my dearest.” 

Had they known it, it was at that precise moment that the universe re-aligned, its re-boot complete. Over on the street, the Bentley miraculously re-appeared, unscathed and polished while over in Soho, a burnt out shell of a bookshop regenerated. Meanwhile, in Crowley’s flat, everything fell into place. 

“O-Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly, giving the exact same exclamation of surprise he had given upon Agnes telling him his cocoa was getting cold. “That’s it! I’ve got it!”

“Should put some cream on it then,” Crowley snapped huffily but without heat. “Stop being clever and adorable and tell me – and I didn’t say adorable.”

“You worked it out, you delightful demon: You walk into Heaven for me, I walk into Hell.”

Crowley frowned, a fully-fledged grin blooming as the penny dropped. “We switch faces.” He grabbed an astonished Aziraphale and kissed him soundly on the lips. “It’s bloody brilliant. Agnes, you wicked witch, I could kiss you!” 

“I’d rather you kissed me and I’m certainly not sharing you,” Aziraphale chided as Crowley pulled him in closer. Then a second later, Aziraphale froze, his body going rigid in the demon’s arms.

“Angel? If it’s about earlier, we take it slowly, okay?”

But the angel was pulling away, an expression of dawning horror on his mobile face. He shook his head in denial, no words coming out at first. “Crowley … dearest, it, it won’t work.”

“Course it will!” the other replied confidently. “She’s been right about everything else – even the Moon Landing and shell suits.”

The angel was worrying at his waistcoat again, looking on the verge of a major breakdown. “I can’t perform miracles, remember? Oh, my love – my disobedience is going to cost you your life!”

“What? Oh, yeah the divorce from God thing, right,” he said, with his usual tact. “Not a problem, angel. I’ll perform the miracle on my own. Can’t be that difficult – I’ll switch both of us. Stop freaking out.”

“It’s not that simple, dear. You know it’s not. It’s not a question of simply pulling a body off the peg as it were. We are talking about … transposing our essences, drawing together both the occult and the ethereal.” 

Crowley gnawed on his finger nail. “There has to be a way!”

“There isn’t! We can’t touch the divine – either of us!” Aziraphale caught his arm and began propelling him towards the door. “You must go now. While there’s time. Please, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t rebelled against Heaven, we’d be safe. I’ve messed it up again, even for poor Agnes.” 

“Finished yet?” Crowley’s golden eyes snapped with sudden infernal fire. He grabbed the angel and rammed him hard against the wall, their noses centimetres apart in what was a travesty of their position less than a day ago at Tadfield. “I. Am. Not. Abandoning. You.”

“My love, please… God’s rejected me. You have to escape while you can -”

“Enough. Open your eyes, Aziraphale. You’re an angel - always were, always will be. God Created you. She brought you into existence before time itself.” He drove his leg between Aziraphale’s, crushing their bodies together harder. “Tell me - precisely - how the fuck She could reject you?”

“I renounced Heaven.” A single tear fell down his face and Crowley kissed the droplet away.

“Like I said, about bloody time!” He claimed his hand and lead him back through to the living room; Aziraphale followed, too shocked to do anything else. Sitting them both down on the sofa, Crowley held the snifter of cognac that Aziraphale had abandoned earlier to the angel’s lips, glowering at him until the dazed angel gulped a few mouthfuls obediently. 

“Angel,” he began again fondly when he’d drained the rest of the cognac himself, “you turned your back on Heaven, not on God. Big difference. Huge difference. Mega difference.” 

“Really?”

“’S like … Queen and a tribute band.”

“I can’t feel her. I can’t …”

“Time to find out.” He clicked his fingers and a leather-bound Bible appeared in his hands, steaming as it touched his demonic flesh.

Aziraphale grabbed it from him in horror. “That’s the Holy Bible, you fool!”

Crowley displayed the blisters on his palm which were raw even after only a second’s contact. “Nothing compared to holy water,” he said flatly, spearing the angel with his gaze. Aziraphale looked away in defeat.

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked.

“Pray.” He pointed to the floor. “On your knees, angel – and you can’t imagine how many times I’ve wanted to say that.”

There was no choice. He wanted to run away, hide like Adam had tried to hide from the Almighty in the Garden but there was nowhere to go. Terrified of failure, Aziraphale nonetheless sank to his knees, his hands clasping together. It was strange, he thought, even as he closed his eyes, how he could count the number of times he had actually prayed in this fashion on one hand. Usually his communion with God had been an instinctive empathy, rather than a stiff relationship dependent on ritualistic phrases. He swallowed and the words, fabricated by simple fallible men, fell from his lips. “Our Father… “

Standing over him, Crowley blinked fiercely, feeling hot tears of infernal damnation burn in his eyes. With the charred remnants of his lost angelic soul, he wanted to sink to the floor next to his friend and beg for forgiveness. But he knew with a desolate grief, that he had made his choice of his own free will: he had rebelled against not only Heaven but his God, he had deliberately and knowingly renounced Her. He had Fallen and he could never say those sacred words again without bursting into flames. 

Aziraphale shifted in turmoil. He’d been right! God really had rejected him! He cried out then instinctively: “My God, why have you abandoned me?!” 

Unknown to him, Aziraphale began to glow, at first gently and then with a blazing golden light. Opening his eyes, he met Crowley’s intense gaze and nodded. No longer able to support himself on knees that had gone suddenly wobbly, he leaned back against Crowley’s legs; the demon slithered next to him and gathered him close, kissing his lips and rocking them both while his heart hammered in gratitude. 

“Try something, angel.”

Blowing his nose first, Aziraphale focused his will and clicked his fingers more theatrically than was necessary. “Let there be tea!” he commanded and there was tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now they have figured out Agnes and Aziraphale has got his faith in God (rather than Heaven) back, it's time for the bedroom.

Crisis of Faith  
Chapter 3

His expression far too adoring for a demon, Crowley watched his angel pour out a last cup of tea, add lemon (it was Earl Grey after all) and stir with a silver teaspoon. The ritual, so precise, so familiar to him after so many lunch dates, seemed to take on erotic overtones as he watched. When the angel began nibbling delicately on a shortbread biscuit, wriggling in hedonistic delight, Crowley had to swallow hard and look elsewhere; the bastard was probably doing it on purpose, he thought. 

He cleared his throat. “We are going to perform the body switch, both of us together. Because come Hell or high water – been there, bought the bloody t-shirts – I am not losing you now.” He reached out to take his hand, suddenly serious. “This ends here, Aziraphale. You’ve been running away from the truth of who you are – who we are - for centuries.”

Aziraphale accepted the truth without dropping eye contact. “I know, my dear. I lied to Heaven, I lied to God and, ultimately, I lied to myself. I didn’t dare let myself love you, I didn’t dare think that I was right and Heaven was wrong.” He kissed Crowley tenderly, pouring all his love into the simple gesture. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, my dearest heart.”

“S’okay.”

“Hardly. I denied you at the bandstand. I let my fear overwhelm me and I denied you.” 

The demon shrugged. “I was going to abandon you too – run away to Gallifrey or somewhere.” He stood up before the conversation could nose-dive into pointless recriminations and pulled the angel to his feet, clasping his hand to keep the non-threatening contact. “Time for bed, angel.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darted away and back again. “Sounds rather lovely, dear, but what if, what if I can’t… You know, after earlier.” 

Crowley kissed his forehead in benediction. “Aware of the irony here – but have faith.” 

Aziraphale nodded acceptance – perhaps it was time just to let go. “Well then, shouldn’t we switch bodies first?” 

Enjoying the opportunity to tease his angel now that the immediate crisis was averted, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we have sex with our own bodies, angel? Kinky.” 

“The very idea, Crowley,” he scolded, mischief dancing in his eyes. Taking another swig of cognac from the glass that had kindly re-filled itself, still not relinquishing his hand, he led the demon through the plant room only to feel Crowley pause at the demon statue.

“By the way, angel, they’re not fighting.”

“Well, what else could they possibly be doing, you silly serpent?”

Crowley fought the urge to roll his eyes and made a rotating gesture with his finger, causing the statue to revolve on its plinth. Aziraphale moved in closer, examining the sculpture with a connoisseur’s eye, noting the clean strong lines. The penny dropped and he squeaked and then giggled. 

“Golly, they’re … you know. Having sex.” He mouthed the words rather as a maiden aunt would. He carried on looking, his expression softening as he made another discovery: the demon was red-haired and wiry, the angel blond and soft. “That’s you and me,” he murmured. 

Crowley looked shifty. “Might be. Alright, so I got Donatello to sculpt it for me. Gonna make something of it?”

“Oh my dear…”

Smiling, Aziraphale drew him close for soft, tender kisses so different from the desperate kisses they had shared earlier. Then he opened the door to Crowley’s bedroom and paused, scanning the room critically. With huge enjoyment, he clicked his fingers and a number of flickering chandeliers materialised, casting pools of golden light across the floor. From somewhere, a harp began playing.

Crowley tried to sulk as they sat on the bed. “Harp music, really, angel? I’m warning you now, if I see one shred of tartan – anywhere – I’m leaving.”

It was amazing how simply and easily they came together for more kisses. Aziraphale’s bottom lip was caught between Crowley’s and he gave a breathy sigh which rapidly turned into a happy mewl when Crowley slid his tongue in. After a few rather divine minutes, Aziraphale pulled back a little. 

“I need to say something.” His hand slid down until it was resting on the other’s chest, his fingers twisting restlessly. “Well, I’ve come to a decision. An important decision.” 

“Go on.” Crowley covered the nervous hand with his own, drawing them over his heart and binding them together. 

“I’m not hiding anymore. I’m scared – in fact I’m terrified. Panic-stricken, intimidated. Definitely anxious, perhaps even petrified.”

Crowley kissed him hard, effectively stopping the flood of words. He grinned wickedly. “Should have tried that remedy centuries ago,” he said. “Imagine how many major dithers we could have avoided.”

Aziraphale smiled, gaining confidence from the familiar teasing. “Yes, well. I’m not hiding anymore. From you or, or from us. Please watch.”

With one final heated kiss, he stood up and, blushing sweetly, began undressing. The removal of the prim and proper bow tie which revealed a few inches of delicate skin was probably one of the most erotic things Crowley had ever witnessed. His soft whine and the way his fingers gripped the satin sheets gave Aziraphale the confidence to continue. He unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling with nervousness, and then snapped it away to a nearby chair where it folded itself neatly. Crowley squirmed wanting to join in, the ache in his belly increasing to a burn. Once he’d removed his shoes and socks in short order, Aziraphale paused, his hands wavering above the button to his trousers. Then he lifted his chin and, although his hands trembled, he slipped off his trousers and underwear in one go. It felt arousing and exposing and empowering and daring all at once to stand there, naked and vulnerable, knowing his demon was devouring him with his eyes.

Aziraphale had been naked earlier of course but he’d hidden himself, barely allowing Crowley to see his body, let alone appreciate it. Now the demon could take his time and look his fill at the blushing beautiful angel: the milk-white loveliness of the broad chest, rippling with unexpected muscle, the rose-pink nipples and the soft plush belly. And below, the arching cock, pink-tipped and rising shyly just for him. 

Aziraphale tugged the demon to his feet and took Crowley’s hand. He kissed each knuckle and then ran it down his own body, just skimming his nipple before holding it against his own throbbing erection in invitation. 

With an incoherent string of consonant sounds, which despite his nervousness had Aziraphale giggling, Crowley dropped to his knees before his angel, ready to worship him. He looked up at him, demanding eye contact which this time was freely given. 

“I’m going to suckle you now, angel,” he breathed, licking his lips at the sight of his angel’s erection bobbing so close to his mouth. 

Getting comfortable on the cushion he had miracled for himself, Crowley cradled the angel’s hips for a moment giving the other a chance to get used to the intimacy. He rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs before gently easing his legs apart. He heard Aziraphale’s gasp, a little too sharply to be entirely from pleasure so he turned his head away from his nervous cock to nibble and suckle at the fragile skin of his inner thigh until he felt the angel relax. Still keeping up the soothing circles, he nuzzled between his legs, breathing in the lavender and sunlight smell that belonged only to Aziraphale. Above him Aziraphale shivered, emitting a gasping sigh which swiftly morphed into a whimper of pleasure when Crowley mouthed the head of his cock at last, darting his tongue wickedly into the slit time and again until the angel’s knees were shaking and Crowley had to wrap one arm round his thighs to keep him upright. 

Taking his time, Crowley licked and sucked tenderly, laving the head before taking him deep into his mouth. Pleased, he hummed in his throat, the vibration sending electricity through every one of Aziraphale’s nerve endings. The demon kept one arm anchored round his thighs to keep them both grounded but sent the other hand between his legs to gently knead his balls. Just as he could feel Aziraphale’s body tense on the edge of orgasm, Aziraphale tugged at his hair.

Obediently, he pulled off with an appreciative pop, staring up at his lover’s shaking form with a satisfied smirk, taking in the rosy cheeks, heaving chest, pert tender nipples and especially his wanton cock shining with pre-cum.

“Tell me how it feels, angel,” he demanded.

Aziraphale gasped for breath. He tugged Crowley up for some deep passionate kisses before he could gain enough control to answer. “Saucy,” he said at last, earning a delighted chuckle from the demon.

“Saucy? I love it when you talk clean.” Translucent beads of pre-cum dribbled from the tip of the angel’s cock and he slicked them across the head with his hand.

“Stop, you dreadful demon! Please! I’ll be undone if you carry on.”

“Undone? Kind of the point.”

But Aziraphale was gathering together what wits he still possessed. “It’s marvellous, my dear, as you know full well but I want us both to achieve satisfaction tonight.”

With one final scrumptious swipe from root to tip, earning him a most delicious squirm, he took pity on the angel and half-carried him to bed. Aziraphale cupped his face for more earnest kisses before clicking his fingers and divesting the demon of his clothes. He stared in honest appreciation, earning him a roguish smirk.

“Like what you see?” Crowley pushed him down on the bed and slithered over him while he whispered in his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to take me.”

“Not following you, angel.”

“You know full well!” Aziraphale snagged at his bottom lip, biting gently. “You thoroughly naughty demon.”

“Really want to. But not now.”

“I’m sorry. I thought …”

Aziraphale looked away in sudden shame and Crowley cupped his cheek tenderly. “Trust me, when this is over, I am gonna fuck you until kingdom comes.”

“Not now?”

“When we make love, it’ll be because we want to and because we’re free. Not because we have a death sentence hanging over our heads. Can you wait?”

At Aziraphale’s nod, Crowley pressed down on top of him, skin on skin, nudging the angel’s legs apart so he could settle between them. Instinct took over and despite his innocence, Aziraphale found himself canting his hips, thrusting up to try and find just the right pressure. Accompanied by increasingly wild and passionate kisses, Crowley quickly established a rhythm which had both of them writhing and groaning as their cocks pressed together, aching and hard between their bodies. 

“Harder, dear. I can’t take much more.” Sweat slicked back his golden curls and with his kiss-swollen lips and gorgeous blue eyes shot wide, he had never looked so adorable. 

The demon shifted the angle slightly, his supple hips driving forward, each slide pressing his cock against Aziraphale’s and the angel wrapped his legs round him, drawing him deeper still.

“Angel,” Crowley panted, pausing on the brink, shaking fingers tracing his beloved’s face. “Together, yeah. Wanna see you, wanna see you come for me. Love you.”

And it seemed that those simple words, echoing down through six millennia, were what finally tipped the angel over. The angel let go, body arching and pulsing as he climaxed, Crowley’s name on his lips. The pleasure broke wave upon wave and he shared every soul-deep ripple with his beloved, never losing eye contact. Seeing the love laid bare in his angel’s burning blue eyes was enough to send Crowley over the edge himself moments later, keening his release.

“Angel!”

Their bodies might as well have been joined together, their essence mixing between their legs and their limbs tangling. Finally, after what could have been an Age, Crowley pressed a rather shaky kiss to his angel’s forehead and managed to roll to the side, still panting hard. Not wanting to lose contact, he tugged until the other nestled against his chest. 

It was quite a while later when Aziraphale half-stirred, frowning as a shaft of light hit the side of his face, interrupting the drowsy contentment. He kissed Crowley’s chest, soliciting a hiss.

“I know, dear. I don’t want to ruin a beautiful moment either, but it’s morning. We have to prepare.”

“Yeah. Time to put Agnes to the test.” He had coiled himself around Aziraphale and he showed no signs of letting go. Aziraphale gently untangled them.

“She hasn’t let us down so far.”

“Then we’ll be free.”

But Aziraphale shook his head. He met Crowley’s gaze confidently as if all his cares had fallen away. “We’re free now, Crowley dearest,” he said simply. “They can hurt our corporations or even obliterate us but it doesn’t matter. We’re free now. This night proves it – we chose our love.”

And the angel and the demon leaned in for one final kiss, pledging their lives in the certain faith that nothing could break apart their love.


End file.
